


a kind of macabre and somber Wondertwin type of harmony

by msermesth



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Civil War II Aftermath, Emotionally Crippled Idiots In Love, Hopeful Ending, Hydra Cap Aftermath, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Secret Empire Aftermath, Smoking, Tony's not ok, holy shit what's happened to Steve?, road-trip-slash-pity-party, steve's not ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msermesth/pseuds/msermesth
Summary: Steve didn’t bring much with him when he left New York to explore the rest of America—just his motorcycle, the shield, a change of clothes, and the memories of his Hydra-counterpart. Now, after six months on the road, he's stuck in a hell of his own creation.It's a hell with no room for Tony Stark, who just happens to be standing in the middle of his motel room.





	a kind of macabre and somber Wondertwin type of harmony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> Fill for the prompt “Steve sulks over his guilt (while skirting responsibilities) by going on a cross-country roadtrip after the events of Secret Empire. What he doesn't expect is seeing Tony Stark waiting for him in his motel room in Middle-of-Nowhere, USA.”
> 
> This ignores Waid/Samnee’s wonderful Captain America run and pretty much goes in an entirely different direction. 
> 
> Dialogue borrowed from CA:SR 6.
> 
> Tell me if you see any typos.

Steve realizes he’s awake more than he actually wakes up.

It’s a slow realization. The bed is hard and digs into his hip bones and his neck is tight from the stiff pillow he’s smashed against. He’s groggy, worn out, and sore in places he’d prefer not to think about at the moment. The room feels unfamiliar, but then again, so have all the rooms he’s stayed in since he left New York, though for once, he’s not in a motel room. There are pictures on the nightstand of people he has no interest in meeting. They must be the family and friends of the sleeping man next to him with the name Steve has no interest in remembering.

Slowly, deliberately, quietly, Steve lifts himself up off the bed and hope he doesn’t wake him. Steve would be fine if he never saw him again, if he’s being honest with himself.

He’s not doing that a lot these days.

There’s the faint imprint of a dream in the edges of his mind and he’s sure if he had woken up in the middle of the night it would have terrified him. But now that the sun is rising through the cold, the nightmare of a cruel and ugly man using his face to advance a cause that makes Steve nauseated feels more haunting than painful. It’s just how it is, right now. He dreams the awful memories of being someone else and wakes up to their aura.

It’s not hard to pull on what he can find of his clothes. He’s missing his left sock, but the walk isn’t that long. He rather walk home in the early morning light with a frozen foot than deal with the polite goodbye he would risk if he stays here any longer.

The wind, right off the lake, is cold and bites through a leather jacket that was never meant to fend off Wisconsin winters. He’s in some small, no-name town; it’s the type that doubles in size during the summer as people flood out of the cities south but barely functions in the beginning of February. It feels bleak here, and Steve supposes that’s why he’s managed to make it five days before turning tail and finding another small town to grow to hate. He likes the bridges over the canal and the way the grey lake becomes the grey sky with nothing in between them. He wants to paint it.

Or, more honestly—he _wants_ to want to paint it. Steve left his art supplies in New York.

He tries to push the night from his mind. It had been perfectly fine sex, though it’s not like Steve would really know anymore the difference between good and bad sex. He’d been celibate for so long (Dimension Z, his stint as an old man, and Kobik’s mindscape would do that to a person), he forgot what it felt like to wake up after a good, long night and feel happy. So when he fell into bed three months ago with a woman who correctly took his perceived lack of interest as nerves, it had felt good. Or it felt good the way that took him back to those first tentative times back in the war; when sex was more about _put your hand here_ or _just relax, I promise you’ll like it_. In that, it ended with an orgasm, and not much else.

But that orgasm had been the first time he’d forgotten about what was waiting back for him if he ever had the courage to turn on the TV. That orgasm did for him what alcohol could never do (not that Steve hadn't tried).

The morning after that, Steve made himself sit through hours of CNN, vowed never to have another one-night stand, and checked out of his motel. It’s been like that ever since then, all the steps blending into a disgusting mixture of diner food, guilt, and cheap beer. And like every time before, this morning Steve’s going to stumble back to his room, pack everything up, and find another town on the godforsaken highway to break him.

It snowed the night before, and his feet are freezing after a walking a block. His left foot is numb after two. His body can handle it. Sometimes, Steve thinks his body can handle too much. He lights up a cigarette. He used to smoke all the time during the war, back when being an ‘inspiration’ meant connecting with other soldiers, and not being a role model for children. It’s not an addiction, at least in the chemical sense. Right now, it’s just a good excuse to hold something in his hands or to leave the motel room or to stop off at the nearest rest-stop. It’s a thing to do, and the act of smoking and counting cigarettes and walking to the gas station on the corner when he runs out is sometimes the closest thing he’s has to a daily routine.

Despite the cold, he’s still disappointed when he ends up in front of the motel without finishing his cigarette. His feet will last, he thinks, as he leans against the brick wall next to his door and takes his time breathing in and out the hot smoke. His mouth is warm, and that part is nice, at least. When he finishes, he reluctantly rubs the butt of it into the snow and walks to the dumpster behind the building to throw it out. It’s all an elaborate choreography to avoid walking through the door.

He can be on the road within the hour. He needs to shower and clean up so that the housekeeping staff isn’t left with his trash, but there isn’t a lot to pack and no one to say goodbye to. It sounds exhausting, but he unlocks the door anyway; staying here would be worse.

“Steve!” he hears before he even sees whoever says it, and he jumps a couple of inches in the air.

It’s Tony, standing in the middle of the hotel room between the bed and the bathroom, and wearing nothing but a towel around the waist. He’s just left the shower—his short hair is standing at all ends and his legs are dripping on the floor. “Tony?” Steve asks, because he doesn’t believe it.

This must be how bad it’s gotten—his ghosts are now following him in the flesh.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Tony says with a compassion and understanding Steve doesn’t deserve. “Woke up, and a little bird told me you’d be here. Thought I’d bring the party to you,” and for the first time since Steve’s walked in, Tony’s smile falters as he looks around the room. Steve can tell he’s trying not to be critical as he eyes every liquor bottle on the floor, as well as the one, half-finished, on the nightstand. “But I see you had the party right here, all along.”

Steve’s heart is racing. The last time he saw Tony was before he left New York, back when he was still in his stasis chamber, and Tony looked nothing like this. He’s lost weight and muscle mass, and his hair has only started to grow back. Tony kind of looks how Steve feels—like he’s been resting for too long and not in any way better for it. How long has Tony been awake and why has no one told him? If he had gotten an Avengers priority alert, he would have done… nothing. He would have done nothing. Not that the Avengers trust him with that information, anymore.

Steve wonders if they would have before he disappeared off the face of the earth.

“When did you wake up?” he asks, because he doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say.

“A couple of days ago.” Tony doesn’t elaborate and the silence sits there, broken and uncomfortable; Steve is reminded of a time back when they lived in the mansion and how Tony would have found him some morning after a long night in the workshop and fresh from a shower just to ask if he wanted to grab some eggs and coffee. When did that stop being the status quo? “I got here a few hours ago. I waited for a while, but when it was clear you weren’t returning right away I hopped in the shower. Hope you don’t mind, I really needed it.”

“No, it’s fine,” Steve croaks out and takes a few breaths.

“Rough night?” Tony’s looking at him like he’s never seen him before. Steve supposes that’s true.

He wants to disappear. He wants to step in his shower and turn the water as hot as he can, and sand off the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, cheap lube. “You can say that.” It had been fine, or the closest thing to fine that Steve could ask for. The man had been a mechanic and had wonderful hands. Steve had almost liked talking to him—his self-effacing type of humor (the type that could only come with a big ego) was comforting. And he _listened_ when Steve screamed at him to just fuck him harder.

“Who knows you’re awake?” Steve asks.

It’s an obvious deflection and Tony knows this, but he responds anyway because he’s a good man and a better friend than Steve ever deserved. “At this point, I think everybody. It’s not like I didn’t have alerts set up or anything.”

“Who have you talked to?” Steve clarifies. What he means is _who’s looking for you? Don’t they miss you? Wouldn’t you rather be with them?_

“No one.”

“How did you get in here?” Another non sequitur.

“It’s a keycard lock, Steve,” Tony says, like Steve’s underestimating him by asking that question. He’s not wrong—there are monks in Tibet who know Tony Stark can outsmart a simple motel keycard lock. The size of Tony’s ego makes Steve duck his head and smile. “I wasn’t sure I was in the right place, at first. But then I saw this,” Tony taps his foot against the portfolio the shield has been sitting in for the last six months and his face falls, like he’s finally been defeated. “You don’t look happy to see me…” It’s vulnerable, not angry, and Steve wishes desperately it was the latter.

Angry, he could handle. That’s how it’s been between them for a long time. They wield their memories and knowledge of each other as weapons. Steve could fight Tony any day of the week. What he can’t do is tell Tony how exactly it feels to see him standing right here. Tony is the last person he wants to looking at and Tony, right now, is the most wonderful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“I’m happy,” he says and his voice breaks with the emotion he could never give words to. “Just surprised and tired. It’s been a while, you know?” He doesn’t know what he means— _it’s been a while since I’ve talked to someone I loved_ or _it’s been a while since you and I had more than a polite conversation_ or _it’s been a while since I felt like, just maybe, things could get better_. “I need a shower,” he asks, unsure that if he leaves, Tony will disappear.

“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Tony says, but it’s light and without judgment, like he appreciates that he found Steve in a compromising position.

The hot water on his skin feels just as good as he thought it would, and he scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs until he feels like he can face Tony again. When he’s done and dripping on the floor, he ducks his head out the doorway just to make sure Tony’s still there. Steve keeps the door open as he brushes his teeth (he needs that, too) so he can watch the way Tony slouches. If Tony sees him, he doesn’t say anything. Tony’s got loose fitting clothes on, and he seems tired, physically and mentally, and more worn out then he looked when Steve first saw him. His eyes keep darting around the room, picking out the different liquor bottles and then anxiously moving to a spot on the wall. _He wants me to think he’s okay_ , Steve thinks and vows to throw all of them out the second he can. It takes a few minutes of watching Tony for the realization to kick in that for Tony, the fight with Carol must be only days ago and Rhodey was only a little while before that.

 _Oh, Tony_ , Steve thinks. He missed that, of course. Instead of being there for an old friend when he needed him, Steve wasn’t anywhere. And then, of course, there are the memories from the man who was there. _His_ memories.

 _“When I realized we were actually gonna be on the same team for once, I just—goosebumps, you know? All over.”_ Tony says in Steve’s mind, and Steve could vomit.

Steve knows. He looks back at the mirror and Tony is looking right at him.

_Goosebumps._

Steve understands.

Tony lifts himself off the bed and he’s clearly off balance. He shouldn’t be walking. He should be at a doctor and surrounded by people who can help.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be with Steve.

Tony leans against the door frame behind Steve, and while he’s clearly trying to appear cool, Steve can see how much he needs the extra support. “You have his memories, don’t you?”

“Huh?” Steve deflects. Maybe Tony will stop talking. Maybe he’ll leave. Maybe Steve will never have to look at him again.

“I know you, Steve.” The way Tony says it, it doesn’t sound like that’s always been a good thing. “Nazi Cap—you have his memories, right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve says, and grips the sink. And it doesn’t matter that in reality, the last thing Steve said to Tony was probably something banal about coordinating the Unity Squad and Tony’s Avengers team during the Pleasant Hill debacle, because Steve can only think of the last conversation Tony must remember with him.

_“When was your last drink?”_

Tony looks at him like it all makes sense, when in reality, none of it does. “It’s not your fault,” he says and Tony’s always too quick to forgive, quick to move on. Doesn’t matter how many of times it would have saved him, Tony Stark does not hold a grudge. “It wasn’t you. Everyone knows that. You have to know that.”

Steve does and he doesn’t. Tony wasn’t there and he doesn’t get it. It wasn’t his fault, but they’re his memories, so what’s the difference? “Is that what you came here to say?”

“No,” Tony sighs. “This isn’t some intervention. I’m not here to beg you to come home.” _Home._ What a concept. “Your road-trip-slash-pity-party sounds kinda fun, honestly.” Tony smiles and it’s tired, familiar. “I want in.”

“People are looking for you, Tony. People need you,” Steve says, hoping to dissuade him.

“They don’t need me. Have you seen the news? They’re doing fine without me. Without _us_. The Avengers, hell, have you seen Iron Heart?” Tony says with pride.

Steve wants to disagree with him, wants to advocate on behalf of all the people who miss Tony, wants Tony to go home and be fine, but then Steve remembers that Tony missed Rhodey’s funeral and the last puzzle piece falls into place.

“It’s not a very fun road-trip-slash-pity-party,” Steve tries again even if he knows Tony’s answer.

Because Tony doesn’t want to go home, either.

“Then I’ll bring the fun.”

“It’s cold.”

“That always bothered you more than it bothered me.” Tony’s smile is growing wider. “So, you in?”

Steve is, despite every alarm bell going off in his brain. They’ll destroy each other. Not just kill each other, but obliterate the other. Wipe each other from existence. Steve knows this because he has other memories, his own memories, _real memories_ , of all the times he wanted nothing more than to take Tony down with him.

“Yes, I’m in,” Steve says and he wants every concern he has to just disappear. But Tony’s the only one who didn’t live through Steve’s hell, and Steve wasn’t there for Tony when he needed him most. Maybe this is the best they can do for each other. “We’ll take your car then? I can ditch the bike somewhere…”

“Didn’t bring a car. Turns out taxis will drive you anywhere if you offer them five grand.”

Steve shakes his head and doesn’t ask Tony how he got money after being in a stasis chamber for a year. He can’t suppress his smile. “All I have is my bike.”

“Then I’ll ride on the back.” They’re both beaming at each other. They’re both idiots. “I’m hungry. How about some eggs and coffee?”

Steve should say no. He’s in over his head. Tony’s as messed up as he is, and Steve can’t help with that.

Instead, he confesses, “Nothing has ever sounded better than eggs and coffee.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr post [here](https://msermesth.tumblr.com/post/169439362919/a-kind-of-macabre-and-somber-wondertwin-type-of).


End file.
